


Something For Nothing

by Tarlan



Category: Strapped (1993)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-27
Updated: 2006-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlan/pseuds/Tarlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McRae dwells on is dealings with Diquan Mitchell and has an acute attack of conscience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something For Nothing

Matthew McRae stood at the far side of the court room and bowed his head in resignation as he heard Diquan Mitchell plead guilty to a murder that he did not commit. How McRae knew he was innocent was not obvious especially as Diquan had been there at the time of the shooting and he had the murder weapon in his possession at the time of arrest, with his - and only his - fingerprints upon it. With the guilty plea as well, the case against Diquan seemed watertight, and yet McRae *knew* Diquan was innocent nonetheless.

However, knowing something and being in the position to do something about it seemed an impossible mix, for Diquan seemed determined to do this to himself.

As the Judge set the date for sentencing, McRae found his thoughts traveling back to that last meeting when he had asked Diquan why he would be willing to take the fall for someone else. The answer given was full of bitterness and he wished he could tell Diquan how wrong he was.

Diquan had said he knew everything about McRae's kind, that his mother cleaned their apartments, that he had moved about their fancy world but could never be a true part of it. He had told McRae that the detective knew nothing about him; the life he had to live, the choices he had to make. Told McRae to 'shut the fuck up' and let it go down.

In truth, his conviction for murder, whether he did it or not, would buy freedom for his heavily pregnant girlfriend, Latisha, and a good chance that he would live long enough to see his unborn child. For Diquan the alternative had been unthinkable. McRae recalled the youth had mentioned having a death sentence passed on him. If he was caught on the streets then he was a dead man. As for the rest; the thought of his child starting its life behind bars was more than Diquan could bear and he had willingly admitted that he would do anything to change that.

As he watched Diquan being led away from the courtroom a line from an old Boomtown Rats song played in his head.

 _It's a rat trap, baby... and we've been caught._

Perhaps they did live in different worlds, their own personal rat traps, but where Diquan's world was filled with **black** gun dealers, crack heads and drug pushers, in the world McRae had grown up in, it was only the colour of their skin that differed.

He remembered a car ride with Diquan; recalled asking him why he was not at school, strangely saddened by his response. McRae smiled as he remembered listening to Diquan's dreams of leaving Brooklyn and its depressing underworld far behind, intent on making a new life for himself, Latisha and their child; somewhere clean. McRae sighed. Diquan was a smart kid and it was a shame that he had to prove his intelligence and willingness to do all for his family in so senseless a fashion.

He gave a wry smile. He had been a smart kid too, but he had also been lucky. Somehow he had managed to keep his nose clean, managed to avoid the gangs, the guns and the drugs that seemed to be a part of everyday life in this city. Having seen his own brother shot dead on the street by a stray bullet he had been determined to become someone that mattered, wanting to do his best to get as many guns off the streets as possible. To this end he had joined the NYPD and had clawed his way up to Detective... had almost believed he had escaped from the rat trap of his own early existence, never realizing until this moment that he had merely exchanged one trap for another.

Now he wondered if Diquan realized how right he had been when he had once told McRae how similar they were... both of them little people at the bottom of the ladder, both of them living off table scraps, crumbs - a small bust here, a small bust there - while the ones at the top, the gun manufacturers and law makers, lived in the lap of luxury far from the mayhem they caused.

On reflection he wondered why he bothered at all. The law was an ass. Selling guns was little more than a misdemeanor and anyone with a clean record could buy themselves a Federal Firearms License and then set themselves up in business. The proof of that had been rammed down his throat all too clearly during these last few weeks and there was little he - or even the mighty ATF - could do about it.

McRae pushed to his feet and walked away, hoping he would be able to resign Diquan to the 'acceptable losses' compartment of his mind, along with all his other failures.

****

Another two weeks passed and McRae could do little but scrabble about in the mire while people like Benjamin de Lorenzo continued selling high-caliber weapons from the trunks of their cars for hugely inflated prices, and wide boys like Bamboo bought them, acting as middleman and taking their own slice of the pie as they passed the guns on to gang members and children alike. In the meantime yet another boy was lying on the slab in the mortuary, a 9mm gunshot to the chest having ripped through his adolescent body taking away any future he might have had.

"Damn it!!"

McRae slammed the steering wheel hard, frustrated by another nickel and dime bust that had gone sour leaving him with nothing to show for a week's surveillance.

Who am I trying to kid, he thought to himself. It was like trying to fight a raging inferno with a teaspoon of water.

His partner was silent as they drove back through the Brooklyn streets, both of them feeling the weight of failure hanging heavy upon them.

"Wait! Slow down."

McRae slowed without making it too obvious and grinned. It looked as though Ben had decided it was safe to crawl back out from under his rock. If he was going back to the old routine then there was a fair chance he would be in this exact spot this time next week.

Surveillance was set up and this time McRae took it slow and was rewarded with enough incriminating video evidence of Ben de Lorenzo selling loaded weapons to make even the ATF sit up and take notice.

When he brought the evidence to their attention he had only one request. He wanted to be in on the bust, he wanted to be the one to bring that piece of scum to justice. He owed Diquan Mitchell that much at least.

****

 **Three Weeks Later:**

The head ATF agent, Markson, grinned as he gave the _ready_ signal to the team. They had more than sufficient evidence to put this bastard away. Having intercepted one of the consignments that were delivered to the man's home address, and taken note of all the manufacturer's numbers, they had managed to link one of those weapons to a drive-by shooting that had resulted in the death of two black males. This time the court would not be lenient and McRae expected de Lorenzo to be given at least 5 years hard time.

The detective licked his lips in anticipation, double checked that his bulletproof vest was secure and that his gun and badge were ready, and then he took a few deep breaths. He gave his partner an okay signal and grinned at the 'thumbs up' response. This was what he lived for, the moment when they would spring the trap on an unsuspecting felon. McRae watched Agent Markson with undisguised enthusiasm, waiting for the command to go.

"Now."

McRae jumped out of the surveillance van, his partner and several other ATF officers at his heels as they quickly closed the gap, guns and badges in hand.

"Police! Put your hands in the air."

Benjamin de Lorenzo froze in shock, recognizing the voice and the police officer it belonged to with an overpowering sense of deja vu. His eyes swung in alarm to the young black he was dealing with as the boy panicked, the Mach 10 jumping in the boy's hand as the youth fired into the converging police force, shooting wildly. De Lorenzo screamed as two agents fell under fire, blood and brains exploding out the back of one officer's head as several bullets hit him square in the face. Guns blazed around him as he dived for cover but not before seeing the familiar blond-haired officer fall under a hail of bullets as the last of the clip played out.

* * *

McRae groaned as he felt someone pulling at his Kevlar vest. His arm felt numb, lying heavy by his side. He looked up into a clear sky that was suddenly filled with another man's face.

"Just lie still. Paramedic's are on their way."

In the background he could hear voices raised in anger and he raised his head, eyes widening as his gaze fell upon the bloodied mess of a man with no face. He felt his breath hitch, panicked as he found himself unable to take in air. His head was forced away from the gory sight.

"Come on. Breathe goddammit." The man's voice raised in anger. "For Christ sake, someone cover that man's face."

McRae lay gasping, body shaking in horror as his mind supplied features for that missing face; his partner's face.

The wail of sirens filled the air. Time seemed to stand still and yet everything seemed to happen all at once. He was confused, shocked and then the world around him turned fuzzy and gray.

****

The hospital room was sterile in appearance with its nondescript plain white walls and stiff cotton bedding. He had been in motel rooms that had been given more of a personal feel to them than this. Above him he could see a bag of liquid feeding an IV tube that was taped to his arm. The numbness in his other arm had gone, replaced by an incredible ache, and he gazed down at the crisp white bandage in bewilderment, suddenly aware that he had been shot. McRae tried to sit up but his breath hissed between his tightly closed lips as a fresh load of pain washed over him.

He felt like he had been kicked in the ribs even though he knew there had been no physical contact during the arrest, and yet he could remember flying backwards through the air as some unseen force had slammed into him.

"You were lucky. You took three hits to the chest, one to the arm. The Kevlar saved your life."

McRae turned to the source of those words and found Agent Markson standing near the door. The agent moved forward until he was standing beside the bed.

"My partner?"

"The kid couldn't control the weapon. Sprayed it around... and caught him in the face."

McRae felt the colour drain from his own features, felt the bile rise as his memory returned bringing images of that ruined face lying next to his own.

"I feel..."

His shoulders were held in a strong grip as he threw up into a receptacle that had, fortunately, been placed near the bed. McRae stayed bent over until all that was left was dry retching and then felt himself being eased back, grateful for the cool, wet cloth that was wiped across his face. His voice sounded weak as he tried to apologize for the loss of control.

"No. **I'm** sorry. I should have waited another minute before giving the _go_... but I really didn't believe he'd give the kid a loaded Mach 10."

****

 **September 20th**

His arm still ached even though it had been several weeks since the de Lorenzo bust, but he was determined to return to work - even though he was ordered to stay at his desk until cleared for active duty. He glanced at his watch. In another 2 hours Diquan Mitchell would be sentenced for the murder of Pharaoh Dodson, and McRae knew he would most likely be sent down for life.

"Damn it!!"

He smacked his desk hard with his good hand. He thought he had managed to push the nineteen year old out of his head; a casualty of the war that raged through the streets of Brooklyn, but the enforced inactivity of the past few weeks had allowed his own guilt for the way he had treated Diquan to rear its ugly head. He owed Diquan. He had made him promises and then he had failed to keep them. It did not matter that he had tried his best to meet those promises, that he had even resorted to begging the DA to reconsider when he had originally approached him over exchanging Latisha Jordan for Benjamin de Lorenzo. At the time Corman had refused to touch it - and why should he? Latisha stood accused of a class A felony carrying an 8 year sentence whereas de Lorenzo could only be brought up on a worthless C felony with a maximum of 2 years hard time, and that was only if they could manage to prove an intent to sell weapons.

He tightened his lips. He had known from the outset of his dealings with Diquan that getting Latisha off scot-free would be impossible, but had led the young man on anyway. The problem was he hadn't expected to actually come to like Diquan; to actually give a damn about him and his future.

Mind made up, McRae dragged his suit jacket from the back of his chair. If he left now then he might reach the courthouse in time.

When he arrived it was only with minutes to spare but that was all he needed. Outside in the corridor he recognized Diquan's mother having seen her at the arraignment. He had heard her scream of despair as her son was led away to be held in remand until sentencing, her cry of pain twanging on his guilt strings.

McRae checked in his gun with the bailiff and entered the courtroom, waiting until the current defendant was led away before speaking.

"Permission to approach the bench."

The judge looked up from where he was checking through his notes, a puzzled expression on his elderly face at this unusual interruption.

"Granted... and you are?"

"Sir, Detective Matthew McRae. You are about to pass sentence on Diquan Mitchell... but I have some information that I feel is pertinent to his case."

The judge gave him another puzzled and yet intrigued look.

"Proceed."

"Mitchell is innocent..."

"Mr Mitchell has pleaded guilty to the charge of murder and he has not retracted that plea."

"Yes, sir. I know." McRae swallowed. "Sir, Mitchell made a deal with DA Corman. He said he would take the wrap for this murder if all charges against his pregnant girlfriend were dropped. She stood accused of a class A felony; possessing and selling crack."

"I see. And you have proof of Mr Mitchell's innocence?"

"I can't prove he didn't do it. I can only offer hearsay that another boy was responsible."

The judge looked hard into the clear, green eyes. He had spent a lifetime reading people and could tell a guilty man from an innocent one almost by instinct alone - and he could tell a lie from the truth just as easily. His sixth sense told him McRae believed what he was saying.

"I'm sorry, officer. With a guilty plea, and no evidence to the contrary, my hands are tied."

"Yeah, I guessed as much but I just wanted to try and do some right by him. I'm not saying he's a good kid. I'm not saying he hasn't done his share of wrong... but he deserved better than this."

The judge nodded and dismissed McRae, watching as the forlorn figure moved to the very back of his courtroom before ordering his bailiff to commence with the next case. He narrowed his eyes and paid particular attention to the defendant who was brought to stand before him; sharpening his sixth sense as he listened to the young man's affirmation of his supposed crime.

****

Diquan's eyes widened in shock as sentence was passed. He had expected to go down for life but instead he was sentenced to 25 years with the possibility of parole in 12. He turned to his defense counsel, catching the same expression of surprise on her own face.

As he was led away he could not resist looking back at his mother to try and give her some reassurance, feeling his own sense of hope rise at the thought of being released from jail while still young enough to enjoy the freedom. His eyes widened as he caught sight of a familiar blond-haired man at the very back of the court.

With every dealing he had with Detective Matthew McRae he had given something and received nothing back in return but, as he took in the slightly strained smile and the nod of gratitude that seemed to be aimed at the judge, Diquan realized he had finally been given something for nothing.

THE END


End file.
